My Short Stories
Here I will put short stories I've written that are fiction.
Russel Stover's in the Air
Julian Kappler waddled to his mailbox. He was waiting for his desiderated present to arrive. Just like every winter, he had been home everyday after school for weeks to watch the mail post. It was the season for grandma's package to come. He walked up to the mailbox a bit dishearten, he'd done this for weeks, and it wasn't looking good. He flipped open the lid and there it was. A big brown box marked 12847348398439848391 AVE SE. Yeah, that's it! He grabbed the package and left the rest of his parents' mail dangling open, freely to the world. It didn't matter now. He was ripping paper shards off the whole way up his street, a long trail of ribbon visible from a distance. He didn't even pay attention to the cars streaming by him, as he was focused solely on this square in his hands. He could see his grandmother's distinctive wrapping peering through the dark brow shredded cover. He took the box out and ripped it right open. He was ready for fun. He knew exactly what it was. The box trembled in his hands with anxiety and he pulled off the bow. Now all he had to do was lift the cover. He looked at the wall for a moment then realized what there was in store for him and tore the lid. A heart shaped container lay no more than an inch in front of his grinning bucked teeth. This is it! He slid his damp hands over the shapes and textures inside and pulled out yet another square. He examined it closely, and then threw it into his garbage pin. He quickly reached for another, apperceived it...and popped it in his mouth. There we go. He sat back in his red folding chair, feeling his body against the metal. He was quite overweight.
dejection
He awoke in a dry sweat. The sheets damp with excess bodily fluids. He sat up in an attempt to shake off remains of energies that had been there. His arms and legs were covered with globules of moisture. The blankets were piled on the floor, and the bedding all tattered. Clearly it was a vicious nightmare. He still had the feelings of it lurking along with him as he stood up and scanned the room. It was his room. Everything was normal. The rug felt just as it used to when he bought it. Soft on his toes, it was a welcoming. A welcoming out of the horror of sleep. He had always had sleep problems, but lately they were easing up. Not to say they stopped. The shock of the cold hardwood always made him scurry down the hall, but this time it was almost relaxing. It was as if it massaged his sole from the inside. His feet were clammy and they felt sticky on the bathroom floor. He would have to remember to clean it one day. He reached his arm around the corner and flipped the light switch. He instantly saw himself and looked automatically at his chest. He saw the beating of his heart through his rib cage. He twisted the rusty faucet and splashed brown water on his face. The paper towels were out, and he proceeded to grab one straight off the ground. Most of his life, he lived as a neat freak. Making sure everything was in its place. But now everything was different. It was now or never here. You didn't have time to worry about little things like whether or not the socks were in the right drawer. Now, he didn't even own a pair of socks. It was much too great of an inconvenience to mind those things. Socks, toothpaste, plates, clean clothes. It didn't matter at this point. He was deeply focused on surviving the night, let alone surviving the day. Surviving he. The daytime was the simple part. He could go to the park, or do almost anything to get through a day. But sleeping. Even falling unconscious was a journey. Some evenings he would sit watching the shadows from the window playing. And chatter his teeth. Hum. Eventually, he would fall. And when he fell asleep, that was only the beginning. Once you were there, that was where they would get you. But today, no, today it felt irregular. Something inside him said that this night was new. There was a combination, feelings of all sorts flowing. And out of all of these, nothing good. He watched himself in the mirror. Waiting to see what he would do. Once again he twisted the faucet. He folded his hands and drank a few sips of water. His heart rate was now slowing. He could feel his pupils rapidly dilating as he looked back and fourth between the lit bathroom and the darkness of the hallway. In his ears was a thudding bass. Seemingly pounding on every bone in his body. Nothing had been the same since she had left. It was over a year ago. He kept telling himself that, but his heart wouldn't listen. Even now, it was beating away. Loneliness struck his head. And he hit his face up against the mirror. His body still panicked. Just relax, he kept telling himself. He looked around the room in search of anything he could focus on. To keep his thoughts off the dream. Anyway he put it, she was gone. He was there. He would go back to bed in a minute and of course he would do the same thing the next day. There would be the same feeling, the same brown water. The same dirty clothes, no socks, cold floor, and dry sweat. It would be exactly like every horrible night. And he would have to face it. She was gone.
Magnavox
"Sgonna be uh slow one, boys," Kreg muttered. But Kreg was alone. He sat sulking in his chair, leaned up against the glass. From time to time he would nudge his elbow up against a crack in the plaster. Not for any particular reason. "seventy four," he thought, "maybe seventy three. Why would I care?" He smiled and didn't move. All he could think of was six am. It would be fine. He touched his finger to the glass and felt the chill of winter buzzing from outside. There was grease on his hands, just like all the other nights, but this time he didn't mind. The ten inch black and white tv was making the sound it always did around that time. He mumbled, gave it a slap and sat back in his seat. His mother gave him the set for Christmas and it suited him. "It's not seventy three, no way. You're out of your mind!" He was glancing out into the lot. All he could see for miles were lights, clear down to the bridge. There wasn't ever much traffic there, and with him working graveyard, it was even worse. He thought it was a good time to take a piss, but just then a truck came up. It was blasting an old country song and Kreg chuckled. "Last time I heard that one was 84. haha" A woman rolled down the window of the truck. "Hey, how are ya? So what'll ya do me for?" Kreg paused, "that'll be two bucks." They exchanged the currency and she drove off. It was just as he said, a slow one. He kicked his shoes off and slumped back into the plastic chair. The news was soon to come on, so he flicked off the TV. "Great." His lips audibly released air and he looked up at the ceiling. "I knew it...seventy four!" There were seventy four brown and orange tiles above him. "So whataya wanna do anyway?" He looked behind him at the blank white wall. At the moment he felt a burning in his head. Like someone had struck him with a bat. He yelled at pounded on the glass with his fists. The pain was growing and he started to cry. He punched the wall as hard as he could, and his knuckles started to bleed. His brain was as if someone was ringing it out of all fluids. There were veins popping out from his temples and his neck and face turned red. He opened the door to the booth and puked onto the asphalt. His ankles were weak. And his knees buckled. He fell, sprawled out, face first on the ground. Twitching and yelping. His clothes were now covered in his own vomit. His eyes bulging from his skull. The screeching in his ears. Ringing and banging at once. And he opened his eye, just a smidge. He saw a car aproaching. He wanted to yell for it, but couldn't open his mouth. His jaw was clamped shut, his neck tensed. The car was still far away, but he could see it getting bigger. The car turned. And drove away. Kreg sat in silence. Trying to control the palpitation of his brain. Something popped and it was all white. He tried to look around, but he couldn't remember how. He couldn't remember why he needed to be looking around. And the pain stopped. He stood up. But he didn't move a muscle. He was still there on the ground. He closed his head. Seventy three.
Harvestry
We always knew it was going to happen, we just didn't know how far we could let him slide. I could see it in him when he worked, the depression, the nervousness. Now, when he was cleaning up, Larry would always talk about what it was like back in his hometown. Even when you'd leave him alone for a day, he show up with sweat dripping from his brow. Eager to get started. Today was Friday. It would be busy. And we all know what one busy day can do to someone in that condition. He used to always talk of what he was going to do with the money. Where he would go. What a beautiful family he'd have. They would live out in the country in calm town. Live life. I just smiled and called him whacko. Now it's six o clock. And time to work. Larry was already in the back starting up. "h-hh-how you livin' Mickey?" Larry had a stutter. He said the kids in school used to tease him for it. But he wouldn't go into any speech classes. They were even worse, if you were ever trying to get laid. Larry had always been around here and he had always been like our brother. A brother that you felt deeply sorry for. "Ai-I-I cleaned the.." He put his hand in his mouth and bit his nails for a second. "What, what did you do man. What?" "I cleaned the counter." He always told us these things and acted as if we were his boss. Or like we would give him a great big slap on the back. "That's great, Larry." The story went that when Larry was young his father would beat him and it caused intense anxiety problems. People called him stupid all his life. And lets face it, he wasn't quite the legal genius. These problems just built up and he didn't really have anywhere to put them. Overall he was a nice guy, never lied to ya, didn't do any harm to no one. But at times he could just bug the hell outa ya. "Can Can I te tell you somethin man, is real inportent." I didn't like when he started up with this, as I knew from experience it can't mean well. "Well I just just wa wanna tell you somethin real quik. Now when I tell you, you can't get mad and hollar. You promise Mickey?" Obviously I had heard this story several times since last night. My phone had been ringing non stop. The police, the owner, the manager. My mother. "Yeah, yeah. No problem big guy." I guess it couldn't hurt. I had to clean anyway. Might as well let him run his mouth. Put a little happiness into is sarrow filled life. "Alri.. alright then. Now yesterevenin I come round here. In the back. And I come up from fourth street. I was just passin through and I come to see a figa. Then I snuck round here, over by them boxes and listened. I heard a man. And there was two. Two man. One said somethin I couldn't figya out, and the otha, he said some kinda curses and somethin bout breakin it. I didn't know what to do..." At this point I thought to myself, does he think I'm listening, does he think I care? He just sat there mumbling. On and on, all of this trivial to me. I was getting close to tellin him to shove it, but I hadn't the heart. "you listenin Mickey? I mean these fools was just bustin out! They was all over here, but I was just too scared. I jus hid there by my alone." Alright well the point is, it's over. It's done with. "I jus wanna tell you the story, Mickey." I couldn't handle it anymore. He had the nerve to come back here after that and just act normal. HEY I'M HERE TO CLEAN UP! Yeah great man. It was already half past six now. How can I think like this? He's innocent. Just good ol' Larry. Would you just leave me alone? CRASH. Water dumped all over the floor and splashed up on Mickey's clothes. "god...damnit Larry! The hell was that for, eh?!" "Aw j jeez man, I'm sorry. It slipped it won't happen again Mickey!" Yeah, that's just like he said last week. "Okay already, I know the story! Why don't you just get out of here, I can clean it up myself, it'll be fine. He already told ya you're fired, now get the hell out!"
*THE BARRACKS*
They heard echoing across the canyon....steps...moving....towards their den. He slammed his wallet on the table and screamed among the crowds, "who here wants to live?!" Many young children could be heard whispering prayers to their mothers as visions of blood and carnage flashed through their minds. Suddenly there was light. And you could almost see smiles starting to form on the mens faces...almost... They walked to the door and you could notice a light sigh of relieve flow from the men conversing about whether to let them open or not. And then it stopped. There was an explosion and fire flew through the room. The people desecrated as they yelped in angst and passion. And blackness fell. Floyd opened his eyelids, they felt sore and he could taste blood in his mouth. A bitter warm feeling coming from all of his body. As he reached for his knife he could tell something was wrong. His knife was indeed there, but something in his leg felt almost new. A sharp and yet dull pain inflamed his nerves and reached his brain instantly. His knee caps were severely bashed in and in his mind all he could remember was the darkness. He looked around but all he could find were shadows, seeming to laugh at him. An image flickered inside him. Of a man with long ragged hair. A disturbing grin and thick glasses. He knew what had happened now, Howard had come back for the money. And he came back fucking pissed. You don't want to fuck with Howard, Floyd knew this. There had been a time when he couldn't pay him soon enough and Howard threatened to do unspeakable things to harm him. You didn't want to fuck with Howard, Floyd knew this. He rolled onto his side and looked down at the wound. His grey khakis were completely soiled in blood. and he noticed he couldn't controll his left foot. Something had happend that night. Something had happend that night. Crash, there were two lights swaying on the ceiling, flickering and making a twisted appearance to him. He couldn't see clearly as he tried to stand, the lights were going off and on, off and on. The stool by the wall supported him and he reached for a stick laying next to a pool of substance. Walking over to the phone seemed like a voyage straight out of the star wars movies. Even as he knew it was an everyday task, he could hardy bare the pain in his leg. It was now seeming to pulsate, as the shock was wearing off. The same question raced through his head, what had happened? Did he fuck with Howard. He knew better than that. He reached for the handset and dialed. The phone rang seven times and went to the answering machine. Hi! You've reached Carol and Berry, we're not home right now but leave us a message and we'll be sure to call you back! Thanks! BEEP. "Aye Berry," Floyd said with a raspy crackle to his voice, he reached and felt his throat, it was cut, "I need to talk to you, it's important. This is Floyd." He slammed the phone on the reciever and walked over to the window. The sun was rising and he could smell the morning dew as he opened it the screen. It was cold. He remembered what day it was. February 22. It was the day. How could he have forgot. He had been preparing for this day ever since he was a little boy, and knew it was coming for years. He stretched out his leg and then quickly turned to the room. There was a sound coming from the ground. Who could this be. A body was curled up under a blanket and now started to yell. He couldn't understand what it was saying. It seemed like a females voice, soft and smooth. But young. He stumbled over to her, wondering if she was ok. Or who she was. She immediated flipped up. Sat erect and stared into his eyes. It seemed like she was something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Like when the mistress looked into her lovers eyes. But for some reason it had more innocence to it. He just sat there. Looking like...well like someone that just the shit beat out of him. He did. And he was starting to realize what was going on. "Who are you," Floyd said with wonder, "who are you?" The girl wouldn't say anything, she just sat there shaking and squinting her eyes. "It's me," she muttered, "Jessie. Don't you remember?" He did. "No. How did you get here? Where are we?" He knew where he was and he knew what had to happen. He walked over to the door, stepping over debris and kicking slabs of garbage away from his path. He flicked it open with his hand that wasn't convulsing. And there was light. The sun had risen and you could see clouds of smoke floating about and the sky a bright orange seeming to affect everything around it. "Get out!" He yelled at Jessie. "Get the fuck out of here!" Jessie looked puzzled, "but...?" Floyd almost tripped on a chunk of matter laying by his right foot, "Just go." She picked up her blanked and examined herself, she was wondering if there were any cuts or breaks on her. She could see the condition the man was in. Why was he kicking her out and where was she at all? That had to wait, for he was quite angry about her being there, for some reason or another. She ran out the door and checked behind her, he was just standing in the doorway with his arms above his head, resting along the henge. It felt like hours went by, she just stood there, thinking of what he was doing, what he was thinking and if he really had the heart to throw her out at a time like that. Her not knowing what was going on, and him looking confused as well. He took two steps backward and looked at her with an odd expression on his face. Their eyes were locked for over twenty seconds. And he closed the door.
All stories © 2002 James G. Arnold. (don't jack me fools)
